


Peep Show

by literallyjohnwatson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Frottage, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, OT3, Oral Sex, Prostate Massage, Threesome - M/M/M, Watching
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-22
Updated: 2013-04-04
Packaged: 2017-12-06 03:19:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/730918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literallyjohnwatson/pseuds/literallyjohnwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg Lestrade had seen a lot of shit in his day. Gruesome crime scenes, mangled bodies, serial killers and murders and rapists so twisted in what they did it was hard to believe they were even humans at all. However, nothing at all could have prepared him for the sight he now beheld.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act I

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly can't believe I haven't really written any johnlockstrade before! This ot3 is definitely my absolute favorite (and also my current tumblr url). This was totally self-satisfying, I'll be honest. I hit a lot of kinks and tried to sneak in as many of my Sherstrade headcanons as I could (such an underrated pairing ahhhh).

Greg Lestrade had seen a lot of shit in his day.

A lot of shit.

Gruesome crime scenes, mangled bodies, serial killers and murders and rapists so twisted in what they did it was hard to believe they were even humans at all.

However, nothing at all could have prepared him for the sight he now beheld.

He wasn’t sure what had him more flabbergasted: the fact that there were two grown men engaging rather enthusiastically in oral sex mere meters away from him, that they’d chosen an empty alleyway to do it in, or that the two men just so happened to be Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

No, actually that last bit didn’t surprise him all that much. He’d thought about it—them together—but most everyone who knew the pair did. Greg wasn’t one to pester them about it, and he didn’t like to make assumptions without confirmation from either of them, so he just went about his business being fairly certain that whatever was between Sherlock and John was strictly platonic.

Though his rational mind told him there was nothing going on between them, his imagination did have a tendency to wander—particularly when he was trying to have a wank. He could picture it so easily. Both of them, panting on top of one another, rutting their cocks together. Sherlock with his mouth around John, John bending Sherlock over him and pounding him without mercy. Yeah, he’d done his fair share of thinking about it, though he usually tried to put the thoughts aside. He’d always thought that if he continued to get off to imagining the two having sex that Sherlock would be able to tell somehow, and he’d really rather not open that can of worms. It had become increasingly difficult as of late, with his wife gone and his most exciting sexual relations being with his own right hand. He needed something to put a spark back in his sex life, and sometimes he couldn’t quell the images from rising into his vision pre-orgasm.

Now that the image was in front of him—Sherlock eagerly accepting the cock being pumped into his mouth, John’s hand clamped into his hair not giving him much choice in the matter, his other hand thrown over his mouth to stop him from calling out and his head thrown back against the brick wall—he couldn’t imagine how he’d ever thought the two were simply friends. They fit together so perfectly, they were melting into one being, and it seemed so natural for them both to be entwined with each other like this.

His mind was telling him to quietly back away and pretend like he’d never seen it, to go about his merry way and never think about this again(though he knew the image was nearly permanently seared into his mind and would be fueling his wank fantasies for weeks), but his body wasn’t listening and he was glued to the spot. Try as he might, he couldn’t pull his eyes away, he was absolutely fixated on the jerking movements of John’s hips, the soft sucking and gagging coming from Sherlock, the stifled sounds of pleasure from John that wafted down the alleyway and went straight to Greg’s cock.

He swallowed so loudly that he was sure the pair could hear him, and when he had to shift uncomfortably in his trousers, he knew it was time to disappear and hope to God the two never, ever discovered what he’d seen (though if they didn’t want anyone seeing, maybe they shouldn’t suck each other off where anyone could bloody see).

————————-

It was quite clear to Greg not even a minute into his evening wank that he wasn’t going to be able to push away thoughts of Sherlock and John, and actually, he really hadn’t tried to give a very valiant effort.

He bit his lip and increased the firmness of his grip, tugging hard and slow, reliving the fresh image of John’s cock jutting out from his body and in and out of Sherlock’s mouth, the thoughts occasionally replacing John with himself or even Sherlock. He bit his lip and increased his pace, slipping his thumb over the glans with every upstroke.

He came with a strangled moan he really didn’t even try to contain, and as semen shot over his hand, hot and wet, he let himself imagine that instead he was coming down Sherlock’s throat, choking him with it, and that Sherlock swallowed it all.

————————

Greg spent the next day at a crime scene with two men he’d wanked off to the night before.

He thought he’d gotten away with it—accidentally catching a peek between the two having a rather intimate moment and staying to watch definitely longer than socially acceptable. It’d been harder than normal for him to concentrate. It was difficult for Greg to look either of them in the eye, and he thought that—though it was probably just his imagination—when he did catch John’s the other man’s cheeks turned slightly pink.

The work on the case had almost been wrapped up, and Greg thought he’d made it home free, that Sherlock or John neither had in fact seen him watching them the day before.

“Have a nice wank last night?” came the low, sinful voice from behind him, just quiet enough for only Greg to hear.

He about simultaneously jumped out of his skin and melted into a puddle on the floor.

“I—What the hell, Sherlock?” he managed to stammer as he whirled around to face the other man.

“Oh, don’t be an idiot Lestrade. Do you think I wouldn’t have the distinct sound of your footfalls memorized by now? Not to mention your obscene breathing. If nothing else, the way you’re obviously avoiding prolonged contact with both me and John is proof enough. You’re embarrassed ” Sherlock prattled. The last bit wasn’t a question.

Embarrassed? Damn right he was fucking embarrassed. He saw two of his mates sucking each other off in an alleyway, went home and masturbated to it, and the two of them had known throughout an entire day of working together.

“I—,” Lestrade began tentatively, starting a conversation he couldn’t believe he was even having.

“Don’t be,” Sherlock snapped before Lestrade could get any more out. “We’re both…flattered.” Flattered that he jerked off to them. Alright. “In fact, we both rather liked the idea of someone watching. Of you watching.”

Greg didn’t even try to pick his jaw up off the floor. The two of them were apparently having very good sex, were flattered by the thought of Greg masturbating to it, and got off on the idea of Greg watching them. He had to stop and ask himself if this was actually his life—and nearly all the times he’d asked himself that question, it was on behalf of Sherlock Holmes.

“We’d let you. Watch, that is. John’s being bashful about it, but we’d be more than willing to accommodate you. Tonight, if you like.” Sherlock dropped that bomb as casually as if he were asking Lestrade to go have a pint.

“Sherlock, I—that’s, I—,” Greg stuttered as he struggled to piece together what he was being offered. Free access to something he’d fantasized about, something until recently he’d only imagined.

“I knew you’d react like this. You and John both. It’s just sex. You’re going to deny yourself of something we’d all mutually enjoy because of your irrational embarrassment. Suit yourself, then.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and sauntered away, his trademark coat fluttering behind him.

—————————

After a lot of pacing, gathering of his nerves, and a cigarette which he broke down and smoked just outside his flat, Greg Lestrade found himself pacing nervously at the steps of 221B, wondering just how in the hell he got there.

The last few hours of his life felt like a blur. Not an hour after he’d got home and cracked open a much needed beer, he received a text from Sherlock reading:

_7:00 p.m. tonight, if you’re still interested. –SH_

Sherlock, the genius, must surely know that Greg was still very much interested. And just like that, he’d left his flat and summoned a cab, his actions feeling almost out-of-body.

Greg knocked again, half convinced that they didn’t hear the first and he still had time to walk away before it was answered.

“Oh, Lestrade!” Sherlock chimed with an undoubtedly fake smile as he answered the door. “I’m glad you’ve decided to join us.”

That smug bastard knew he would be come, knew it would be too much for Lestrade to walk away from.

Greg entered the flat and surveyed John, who was sitting comfortably on the sofa tapping away at the keys of his laptop. Greg offered a terse nod and smile as he greeted John, and John offered the same in return, the tips of his ears going a bit pink. Before Greg even had time to turn around, Sherlock had already made his way into the bedroom.

John made a sound halfway between clearing his throat and coughing before shutting his laptop and saying matter-of-factly to Greg, “Don’t get me wrong, I’m chuffed that you’re here, but you really didn’t have to come if this is going to make you uncomfortable, Greg. I know it can be hard to refuse Sherlock sometimes, even for you.”

“Kinda like you couldn’t say refuse a blowjob in the middle of a darkened alleyway?”

John laughed nervously, the pink in his ears spreading to his cheeks. “Yeah, kinda like that. He’s always tempting me with things like that. He knows the danger of it all appeals to me enough that I’m willing to risk getting caught. Never thought we actually would, but well…” he motioned to Greg.

“I never meant to—I—it was an accident. Seeing you, I mean,” Greg looked down at his feet and felt his cheeks growing hot.

“That’s what we get for shagging in public then, isn’t it? You’re probably the best person to get caught by, anyhow. It seems it’s working out well for all of us, regardless.” John’s face was completely flushed now. Rising from his chair and setting his laptop on the end table, he motioned in the direction of the bed room and said tentatively, “Well?” Greg followed.

Upon entering Sherlock’s bedroom, Lestrade found it to be fairly normal-looking, though he wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting. It just served as proof that Sherlock actually was a real, functioning human being that maybe didn’t operate on such a different wavelength after all. The fact that Sherlock even had sex was even further proof, and perhaps this was the fact that had surprised Lestrade the most about this while ordeal. In the five-plus years Lestrade had known Sherlock, he’d never had any reason to believe that Sherlock had normal relationships or any kind of sex—but in Lestrade’s mind this wasn’t really what normal sex constituted.

Upon further surveying the room, he found that is also contained something he was not expecting to see just yet: a completely nude Sherlock Holmes. It was something Greg had definitely imagined, but his trailing thoughts were no match for the real deal. He was all angles, but they fit together in a way that seemed to make his entire body one subtle curve. The lean but ethereally defined torso, the long legs, the tantalizing curve of his back, the pale skin punctuated only by the dark mess of pubic hair, and oh God—that arse. Lestrade couldn’t help but wonder if John was going to fuck him.

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock. You’re going to give Greg a heart attack,” John teased, though a grin was creeping over his face.

“I wasn’t going to waste any more time with you two yapping needlessly in the other room,” came Sherlock’s snarly reply.

“Oh, shut up you idiot

“Make me.”

John did. He strode over to Sherlock with zero hesitation, wrapped his fingers comfortably around Sherlock’s cheek, and pulled him down into a feverish kiss. His hand fit so snuggly around Sherlock’s face, like it was meant to rest there, and as their bodies became entwined in each other, every part of them seemed to fit together like a puzzle piece. John’s other hand tangled in Sherlock’s thick curls, while Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s soft waist, and John voluntarily rutted his hips into the other man’s.

Lestrade watched intently as both men completely devoured each other, their mouths mashing together wildly, occasionally revealing the luscious sight of their tongues intertwined, not bothering to go slow and making sloppy smacking sounds.

Lestrade was licking his lips unknowingly as Sherlock expertly began stripping John of his clothing, John struggling to get his jumper over his head. They took labored, heated breaths and exchanged short, desperate kisses as they were both working on unbuttoning John’s shirt and trousers. They were flushed and panting and Christ they already looked so debauched and had done nothing more than kiss.

John threw his arms back and let his shirt fall to the floor, and after the clink of his belt being undone, he kicked his trousers off as well. They returned to a full on kiss, taking their time with this one, their lips skirting over each other’s with great care and hands running on each other’s bodies with tenderness. Although they were lustful and desperate in the beginning, this show definitely told Lestrade something: these two were so very much in love. Though, he supposed he knew that all along even before seeing this passionate display. 

These two had to have a lot of trust in their relationship to allow an outsider to come observe them, in their most raw state, seeing the most intimate workings of their connection. With a pang of affection for them both, he realized that they had to have an insane amount of trust to allow him to see it. It was a gift for him, something rare and delicate to be treasured.

His gentle musings were interrupted when he heard John moan into Sherlock’s mouth, and he looked down to see Sherlock tugging his hardening cock out of his pants, the flushed tip peeking out of the top. Sherlock was half-hard too.

Lestrade gulped. _Fuck._

Spinning John around and kissing him onto the bed, he shoved a needy hand in between them, tugged John’s pants down around his knees, and stroked him to hardness, leaving John panting and wanton, his cock jutting straight out from his body.

Just when Lestrade was beginning to think that they’d both forgotten he was even there, Sherlock turned his head towards him and said breathily, “We’ve been such rude hosts. Please, make yourself comfortable Lestrade.” Greg gulped and nodded, following the advice of Sherlock’s sultry voice by seating himself in a small chair he’d failed to notice in the corner of the room. As he sat he noted the uncomfortable tightness forming in his jeans.

Sherlock gave a deep throaty laugh before capturing John in another fiery kiss, catching his bottom lip in his teeth. He trailed down, leaving kisses and love bites all along his jawline and neck, all the while grinding his hips into John’s with lascivious and deliberate slowness. They were both fully hard. He continued down, and the farther he ascended the more John seemed to buck and pant, obviously craving the hot, wet embrace of Sherlock’s mouth on his cock.

Sherlock made sure to plant small, tender kisses on the puckered, gnarled skin of the scar on John’s shoulder, and again he noted the obvious and intimate love that they shared.

The farther down Sherlock got, the quicker he moved, and it was clear that Sherlock was just as eager as John was. As Sherlock loomed over John’s cock, there was an expression on his normally unreadable face that Lestrade could only describe as hungry.

Grinning, Sherlock licked a stripe from the base of John’s cock to the tip, lingering there to place a few playful sucks. John almost whimpered and threw his head back, fingers gripping Sherlock’s messy mop of hair. A few more bold licks and John was squirming. After choked plea of, “Fuck, Sherlock, please,” he finally acquiesced, plunging down onto John’s cock with fervor.

John let out a groan of pure ecstasy and Lestrade became hyperaware of his own erection straining against his trousers. John jerked his hips rather indelicately into Sherlock’s mouth while his hand was forcing his head down on his cock. Sherlock swallowed several times around him, saliva gathering at the corners of his mouth. Lestrade was sure that John’s cock had to be hitting the back of his throat, and although he was making small gagging noises, he was taking it like a champ.

“Don’t worry, he likes it,” John said rather headily, thrusting upwards and effectively fucking Sherlock’s mouth.

Jesus Christ. Sherlock Holmes, who always had to be right, who always had to be in control of everything, liked submitting to John, liked letting him thrust relentlessly into his mouth and making him choke and gag.

Sherlock was completely disheveled, his eyes watering, saliva coating his lips, sinful mouth stretched tight around John’s thick cock. God, Greg wanted to touch himself, it was taking all his effort not to as he squirmed in his seat, trying to get what little friction he could.

As if he was reading Lestrade’s mind, Sherlock forcibly removed himself from around John, wiped his mouth wickedly with the back of his hand, remarking hoarsely, “You can touch yourself, you know. In fact, I think we’d both prefer that you did.” John gave a half-moan of approval and shoved Sherlock back down around his dick, and Lestrade could not get his fly undone faster. He tugged his jeans and pants down, freeing his restrained erection, a bead of precum already gathering at the tip.

He wasted no time and eagerly began fisting his cock, and in the few seconds he was able to tear his eyes away from the sight of Sherlock readily swallowing John, he looked up to see John closely studying him and—oh God, they made eye contact and a heightened surge of arousal pulsed through Lestrade and he couldn’t stop himself from moaning (and who was he kidding, he didn’t even try).

The air in the room seemed to have thickened within the last fifteen minutes as Lestrade gasped, bucking and writhing into his own hand, unable to control himself, surrendering completely to the sensation of his touch and the sights and sounds of the lovemaking taking place before him.

John’s thrusts were growing more erratic and he hooked a leg around Sherlock’s back, urging him on further.

“Jesus, Sherlock. Fuck—ah! Don’t stop,” John commanded headily. Sherlock moaned in appreciation and so did Lestrade, and Sherlock forced himself down on John’s cock again and again, softly sucking as he went.

Greg could see John’s toes curling, his eyes fluttering madly beneath their lids, and he knew this was going to be over soon.

“Oh God, yes, Sherlock, I—,” John choked out, finally coming with a cry down Sherlock’s throat, just as Lestrade had imagined the other night, and he imagined it again now, stroking his cock with firmer stokes and letting a cry escape his lips just when John had.

John held a firm hand on Sherlock’s head, forcing him to swallow his cum, faintly thrusting and riding out the waves of his orgasm. Lestrade looked forward to his own orgasm, and what would come next in the show. Sherlock hadn’t come yet, and if there was one thing he was looking forward to it was seeing Sherlock undone, writhing and moaning in climax.

John lay on the bed completely spent, one hand falling carelessly over his face, the other petting Sherlock’s hair, chest rising and falling rapidly. Sherlock peppered small kisses along the insides of John’s thighs.

The next action that Sherlock took proved to be both exciting and unexpected for Lestrade. The lanky detective extracted himself from the bed, took several languid strides towards Greg, and straddled him, wrapping his arms around his neck.

Sherlock was so deliberate yet casual in his motions that all Greg could do was gape as he felt the other man’s slight weight press down on him, his hard, damp cock jutting into his front.

Lestrade had ceased touching his own dick, but he thought he might come right there from the exhilaration of this entire situation. He’d just watched two of his friends have rather invigorating sex, while they encouraged him to masturbate, and now Sherlock Holmes was sitting on top of him, cock hard and completely naked, while he himself was almost fully clothed.

This was definitely not something he anticipated. It was clear that Sherlock and John had invited him to watch—nothing had been said about him being involved in the festivities. Had Sherlock planned this the whole time, or was it something he decided to do on the fly? Had he discussed this with John, or would the other man be upset? He attempted to crane his neck to see John’s reaction, but all he could see was Sherlock. Everything was Sherlock; the pressure on his groin, the slick, pale skin, the mild scent of sweat and honey and musk, the wet lips that were ghosting dangerously close to his own.

Not soon enough and all at once, Sherlock plunged his mouth onto Greg’s, and he stopped thinking about John all together, except when he realized that the bitter taste inside Sherlock’s mouth was his semen. He only groaned at the thought and wished he could get a hand down to his prick, but he was too busy grabbing Sherlock’s hair and exploring every inch of sticky skin he could find. The way Sherlock kissed could only be described as ravenous, as he aggresively thrusted his tongue into Lestrade’s mouth and pulled back on his hair, allowing him easier access.

After what seemed like an eternity, but wasn’t more than a handful of seconds, Sherlock pulled away and growled at Lestrade, “You’ve been smoking.”

Greg could only stare dumbstruck and nod stupidly as Sherlock wrangled him in for another rapacious snog, and it was one of the sloppiest kisses Greg had ever received. He supposed he’d be rather put off if anyone else was literally licking at the inside of his mouth like Sherlock was—but it was Sherlock, and that wanker got away with a lot of things that Greg wouldn’t stand for in other people.

Sherlock broke away again and Greg almost whimpered as he began biting at the shell of his ear instead, rumbling lowly into it. “You’ve wanted this for a very long time, Lestrade.”

Greg felt a twinge in his gut. Sherlock was absolutely right.

“Back then, you wanted me. But I was vulnerable. How nice of you to spare my feelings. But now you’re the vulnerable one, aren’t you?”

Christ. Sherlock had just opened about five years’ worth of repressed sexual tension, because Greg had wanted him, a long time ago. Right after he’d just gotten clean and he was at his peak, becoming increasingly healthier and sharper at crime scenes, solving case after case and dazzling the Yard with his prowess. He was an uncontrollable, insufferable prick, and that only made Lestrade want to own him, to control him, to tie him down to the bed and fuck him senseless, so the only thing Sherlock would be calling out was Lestrade’s name as he came.

It had always been against his better judgement to try anything with him. His marriage wasn’t exactly failing, but the fact that he didn’t care that he would have been cheating on his wife should have been a red flag. The problem was, Greg had seen Sherlock as infinitely younger than him back then, even though they were only separated by a handful of years. He’d felt some kind of fatherly responsibility towards Sherlock, and he knew Sherlock had been in a delicate state—just becoming sober and really starting to get his life back on track—and Greg had never thought it would be a good idea to do anything to shake the foundation which Sherlock was slowly building for himself. Not to mention he wasn’t even sure if Sherlock was sexually active at all.

Regardless, Lestrade had always felt a pull towards the man, and those who were on Sherlock’s good side almost always did. He was enigmatic, intriguing, exciting—and surely he would be in bed, too. All those years Lestrade had thought he’d succeeded in quelling those thoughts, but Sherlock had seen through him like glass, and the fact that he’d known this entire time that Greg had been lusting over him and ignored it made him want to punch the great wanker in the face and shove him onto the floor.

After feeling the slow grind of Sherlock’s hips into his, he decided not to.

Sherlock was right about another thing; this time, Lestrade was the vulnerable one. Recently split from his wife, sex life on the rocks—of course he’d be more open to something like this happening, to letting Sherlock take him. But Sherlock was wrong if he thought that Greg was going to sit back and let Sherlock have control of this situation. This was something he’d wanted for a long time, and it was going to happen on his terms.

Sherlock continued to bite at Lestrade’s jaw and neck, and he arched into the contact. Indulgently slow, Lestrade clawed his hands down the smooth expanse of Sherlock’s back, grasping a solid handful of fleshy arse and digging his fingernails in as he drew Sherlock in closer.

The other man gave a huff of hot breath against Lestrade’s neck in surprise and angled into his’s pull. Sherlock repositioned so that the two of them were touching foreheads, and Lestrade couldn’t resist pressing their panting mouths together again.

Snaking a hand between them, Greg grabbed at both their cocks, making sure to carefully trace the outline of Sherlock’s glans before giving a firm tug. Mewling into Lestrade’s mouth and giving a shudder, Sherlock let his lips fall messily from Greg’s to recklessly scrape across his cheek.

The two men gulped for air and their humid breaths mingled together. Both of them shuddered as Greg pumped both their cocks, smearing together the precum gathered at both their slits. One hand was still gripped into Sherlock’s arse, urging him into a steady rhythm. Despite Sherlock’s thirst for control, he seemed to have no problem letting Lestrade take over. He had both arms wrapped around Greg’s neck, a hand snaking up to stroke at his hair as he bucked his hips into the other man’s grip.

Their mouths continued to messily collide as Greg jerked them both, rolling their glans together and tugging their foreskin up with every stroke. Greg found himself pulling them together from both sides, simultaneously pushing upwards with his hips and drawing Sherlock inward. He broke away from Sherlock temporarily to spit into his hand, and holding their dicks with his other hand, he rubbed his palm over top both their heads, causing Sherlock to tremble and omit a low groan that was downright pornographic.

Lestrade couldn’t help but smirk at the state he now had Sherlock in. Having a Holmes at his mercy was extremely gratifying after having one boss you around your own job for five years.

As Sherlock pulled away from a kiss, dragging a bit of Lestrade’s lower lip through his teeth as he left, Greg knew he couldn’t wait any longer to come. He picked up the pace with his saliva-covered hand and returned the other to erotic curve of Sherlock’s arse, nothing else in his mind but the promise of release.

Sherlock jerked and encircled his arms even tigher around Lestrade’s neck, burying the other man’s head in his chest. Lestrade couldn’t help but breathe in the scent of him deeply, a scent that he’d smelled briefly many times over the past few years but never got close enough to fully immerse himself in. He also had the advantage of having Sherlock’s lecherous breathing and moaning in very close proximity with his ear, and God, he wasn’t’ going to last much longer.

“Fuck, Lestrade, I—” Sherlock gasped, and he was spilling over wet and hot into Greg’s hand, on his shirt, his cock twitching next to his, and it was one of the most invigorating things he’d ever experienced—and not just because he had a very naked and very attractive man orgasming in his lap. No, because it was Sherlock Holmes, and because Greg had done it, and because Sherlock was betraying emotions he’d never let on he’d had, and because the thought that even he wasn’t immune to the primal desires of the human race was unusually satisfying.

Sherlock calling out his name in his signature husky baritone as he climaxed was more than enough to fuel his wank fantasies for the rest of his life, and although he continued to stroke his own dick, Sherlock unwrapped from him a bit, shortly making eye contact that was uncharacteristically soft, and replaced Greg’s hand with his own, as if he wanted to be sure that he was the one who caused his climax.

It didn’t take long. Sherlock moved with lazy, languid strokes but his fingers where incredibly nimble and seemed to skirt over all the right places. He trailed his mouth down to Greg’s neck and nipped at him playfully, leaving Greg to bask in the sight of Sherlock stroking him, his cum coating his dick and Sherlock’s hand and stomach.

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock,” he hissed through gritted teeth, and with a low groan he was coming under Sherlock’s fingers, painting his stomach with white, unable to tell who’s semen was who’s. He jerked upwards, riding the aftershocks of such an intense orgasm; his eyes snapped shut, mouth agape, head thrown back.

He immediately felt post-orgasm euphoria set over him, lethargy filling his limbs. Both men slumped forward, their breaths slowly returning to normal.

“Fuck, you two. Maybe next time I can jerk off while you two go at it. If I were ten years younger, I’d be hard again.”

Lestrade swallowed nervously. He’d quite forgotten John was even in the room, but he was supremely glad that he wasn’t angry about what had just transpired. Burning bridges with these two was definitely not something he wanted to have to do, though after tonight it seemed like he’d built a few.

This was strange, and he supposed he should feel awkward after all this, but he didn’t. Despite the now irritating weight of Sherlock pressing down on his lap and the sticky dampness of his shirt, comfortable was what he felt. He’d just watched his two mates shag and then had a pretty damn good orgasm himself. What part of that was wrong?

“How long would you say your refractory period is? An hour or so?” Sherlock inquired casually, finally extricating himself from Greg’s lap.

“Yeah, I suppose, yeah—give or take.”

“Good.” Sherlock gave a curt smile. “It’ll take that long or longer for us all to shower and go out for Chinese.” Without another word he strolled into the sitting room, still completely naked.

John gave a chuckle from over on the bed, and Greg laughed almost giddily and flashed him a playful smile. Greg had somehow fallen into a life where he was going to get to have mind-blowing sex with two attractive men, hopefully on the regular.

It seemed so easy, so natural, that he couldn’t fathom why he hadn’t considered it before. He wasn’t sure where exactly this turn had started. Was it all those years ago when he decided he wanted Sherlock? When images of Sherlock and John in situations nothing short of compromising started to creep into his filthiest daydreams? Or when he’d finally seen those images jump from imagination into reality?

Whenever this all had started forming, Greg knew one thing for sure: he was completely, absolutely, one hundred percent okay with it.


	2. Act II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By somewhat popular demand I have continued this fic, and there should be one more chapter. It took me a long time to get this written and I'm dedicating this to my friend Rachel (selkiesea on tumblr) because this whole time I was supposed to be drawing her a thing but was writing this instead.

Lestrade cleared his throat and nervously adjusted the collar of his shirt, which just so happened to belong to John Watson. His had been thoroughly soiled during the night’s previous activities, and John had fished out one of his old shirts and tossed it him without Greg even asking, saying that it would probably fit him. It was a bit short, as Greg had a longer torso than John, but otherwise it fit him just fine.

Even amidst the thick, rich scents of the Chinese restaurant, Greg could only focus on how the shirt smelled of John. Warm and soft but strong—just like he was. Buried deep in the fabric was just a hint of the honey-sweet scent of Sherlock. Perhaps their clothes shared a drawer—Greg really wasn’t certain just how their relationship worked or how long they’d been together. Well, together in this sense, anyway. He’d known there’d been something different about Sherlock’s relationship with John the second he brought him on that serial suicide scene, and back then the pair had only known each other for a few hours. The way Sherlock had brought him onto the scene, and proclaimed confidently, “He’s with me,” and the way John had followed, unsure but obviously intrigued, and just crazy enough to accompany a man he barely knew to hunt down a serial killer.

“Was it good?” Sherlock asked from across the table, his expression stoic except for a raised eyebrow.

Greg picked at the remains of his lo mien. “Well, can’t say I’ve ever had lo mien I didn’t like, but—”

“That’s not what I meant,” Sherlock shot back quickly in a low growl.

_Oh._

“Christ, Sherlock, did you even see me? It was well past ‘good’ if you ask me,” Greg blurted out, maybe a little more fervidly than he intended.

“So you’re okay with…this? You’re not uncomfortable?”

“If I was, I wouldn’t be here,” Greg assured Sherlock, and the fact that Sherlock needed assured about anything was worrying.

Sherlock gave a fleeting smile. “Good. I’ll pay the bill.” He popped up to the counter and left Greg and John to themselves.

“You must’ve been good too, he almost never pays the bill,” John chuckled, a warm grin spreading over his face.

“I—what’s his problem?” Greg asked, stumbling over John’s statement and getting straight to the point.

John evidently knew exactly what Greg was getting at. “He was like that when we first got together too. Always asking me if it was okay—if I was okay. I’ve never seen him so unsure about anything before. I think it’s because, he’s never really done this, you know? Sex, yeah, but not a relationship.”

“You must love each other a lot,” the words slipped from Greg’s mouth before he even thought about them. But it had to be true; the way that Sherlock was willing to let his guard down so much and plunge into something he’d never really attempted before, for him to admit he didn’t know how to do something—something that went against Sherlock’s grain completely, really. And John—well, again, Lestrade didn’t want to go assuming things but he didn’t think John was really the type to swing around with blokes before this, so surely it had to have been confusing for him, but he’d trusted Sherlock enough to dive in headfirst.

After looking at the somewhat pained expression on John’s face, maybe that wasn’t the best choice of words after all.

“I—we haven’t, we’ve not said,” John stammered, trying to find the right words.

“Oh God, I—I didn’t mean—but surely you must…?” Greg inquired further, wincing at his words after they left his lips.

John sighed and shook his head. “Yeah. Yeah, I do. God help me, I do. Who knows what’s going on in that brilliant mind of his, though.” He looked so melancholy that Greg had the urge to reach over the table and take John’s hands in his own, though he didn’t think he’d earned the right to do that yet. God, he’d been invited into the bedroom of these two men, of this contained, intimate relationship, and the two wankers hadn’t even said they loved each other. He was suddenly hit with the fear that he’d come between them before their relationship had fully formed, that he’d stunted its growth before it could be completely realized.

“He does, John. I really, truly believe that,” replied Greg with certainty. There was no way, not after the way he’d watched Sherlock carefully kiss John’s scar, the way he’d kissed him slow and deep and passionately, that Sherlock Holmes did not love John Watson. He’d never, ever seen Sherlock regard anything like that in his life. “I said to you when we first met, that I’d known Sherlock for five years, and I didn’t know him better than you. And I still think that’s true. No one’s ever gotten this far past his defenses—no one has ever seen this much of him except you. No, it’s true, don’t look surprised. But I can tell you one thing: never in my life have I seen Sherlock Holmes look at anyone or anything the way he looks at you. He loves you, John. He loves you so much he probably doesn’t know what to do with it. And he’s probably afraid of that, but he loves you.”

John blinked, trying to take in everything Lestrade had said, and swallowed the lump out of his throat. “I—wow. Uh, thank you, Greg. Really.”

A newfound fondness for John began to blossom in Greg’s chest—he’d always been fond of John, that was for certain. The pair had always been there for each other to share Sherlock horror stories, and had even met up for a drink a few times outside of the Yard. He both admired and failed to understand how in the world John was able to put up with so much of Sherlock’s nonsense, but now that he was fully aware of the entire situation, it all made sense. Greg felt for John—he really did. It pained him to see how obviously in love John was, prepared to give Sherlock absolutely everything, while Sherlock was nearly unable to do the same. It was an awful twist on unrequited love, because it was obvious Sherlock had the love to give, buried somewhere deep in his insanely brilliant mind, locked away in a chest, waiting for something to turn the key in the lock.

And John would wait, Greg knew. He would keep waiting even if it never happened. Damn John Watson and his obscene loyalty.

“John, are you sure you’re okay with all of this? With me—being here,” He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was trespassing on sacred ground.

“God yeah, no—Greg, it’s more than fine. After that, it’s—it’s better, actually,” John assured him fervently, the warm smile returning to his face.

“When you decided to ask me over, did you know he was going to…,” Greg gestured vaguely with his hands. He thought it may not be an appropriate time to ask something like that, but he couldn’t quell his curiosity.

“Going to what? Give you the best shag of your life? He didn’t ask me for permission if that’s what you’re wondering. So no, I didn’t know, though I had my suspicions. He’s not always as subtle as he likes to think. He’s under the assumption that I don’t notice him checking out another man’s arse. And yeah, he has done, loads of times,” John added, taking note of the dazed expression Greg didn’t even realize he was wearing.

Noticing John’s line of vision tilt upwards, Greg turned his head to find Sherlock artfully striding back towards the pair of them.

“Have a nice little chat while I was gone?” Sherlock drawled in his usual sarcastic tone. Greg couldn’t help but wonder if he somehow had overheard everything he and John had said, but if he did, he didn’t let on.

“Yeah. Yeah, we did, actually,” John piped up after a few seconds of contemplating whether to say anything at all.

“Good,” Sherlock said, echoing his earlier words, this time seeming not at all sarcastic. “Let’s go.”

As prompted, Greg and John rose from their seats and tailed after Sherlock. Two men who had always been tailing after Sherlock. Greg, tracking him down to make sure he wasn’t doped up out of his mind. Greg, constantly hounding him to come to crime scenes, sometimes even ones that he knew he didn’t need Sherlock for, just to make sure that he was occupied enough not to go back to using.

And John, trying to keep up fast enough so that his limp wouldn’t return, pushing all other thoughts aside except the adrenaline running through him, shooting a man to save the life of one he barely knew. John, letting his very being be consumed by Sherlock, unable to stop himself from loving a man who didn’t know the first thing to do with that.

He and John were one in the same, and Sherlock was like a black hole—dark and ominous and dangerous but too beautiful to look away, too intriguing not to investigate—and they were both hopelessly caught in his unyielding gravitational pull.

The trio remained silent throughout the taxi ride back to 221B, but the cab was buzzing noisily with the thoughts of all three men, Sherlock’s the loudest and sharpest, making it hard for Greg to concentrate on anything. He let himself slip out of conscious thought and soon there was only the feel of John on his right and Sherlock on his left, both their thighs warm and firm against his, breaching contact further with every bump of the ride. Anxiously he swallowed as he remembered the earlier events of the night and let his mind wander into what might happen next.

The lump Greg just tamped down almost came back out his mouth as he suddenly felt Sherlock’s nimble fingers creep up the side of his leg, giving his thigh a shrewd squeeze. Darting his eyes over to John, he saw a downright devilish grin spread across the other man’s face, and Greg could have sworn he felt John shift his limbs deliberately closer.

After what seemed like ages, the taxi finally pulled onto Baker Street, and as the three of them climbed the stairs to the flat, they were all practically vibrating with anticipation. After all three of them had removed their coats and made their way to the sitting room, Sherlock spoke up while the other two looked around for some clue as what they were supposed to do next.

“Well Lestrade, you’re our guest, why don’t you start us off?” Sherlock prompted, his eyes cloudy and his voice husky.

As soon as the words left Sherlock’s mouth, Greg didn’t have to think twice about what he wanted to do. Stepping forward with certainty, he took John’s face in both his hands and crashed his lips over the other man’s. Greg was slow and searching, carefully waiting for John to open his mouth before plunging his tongue inside, tasting warmth and a hint of Chinese food. John reciprocated with just the right amount of pressure—relaxed enough that neither one of them had full control, but aggressive enough that Greg was still incredibly turned on. It was very different from kissing Sherlock, who was almost overwhelming. John was just present and solid and comforting but still surprisingly erotic.

Lestrade threaded his fingers through John’s sandy hair, cradling his head into the kiss, while John trailed his hands over Greg’s arms and back. These two had seen plenty of each other, but they hadn’t been able to touch, to feel, to experience. 

The push and pull of the kiss was perfect. Where Lestrade wanted to take, John gave and vice-versa. Greg was breathing hard, as if John was sucking the breath right out of him. The feel of John’s stubble scraping across his own was grounding, and he seemed to have a way of making Lestrade aware of his own body. John brought a hand down in between them and groped Greg through his jeans, the patterns of his fingers mesmerizing.

Greg let out a deep, satisfied sigh and muttered, “John,” in between their heated kisses while John hummed contentedly.

Lestrade broke the kiss and came to discover that John’s jawline was extremely gratifying to nip and suck at, and judging by the way John was mewling in his ear, he thought so too. He struggled to get himself in focus as he felt himself start to come to hardness underneath John’s grip. Gathering his thoughts just enough to begin unbuttoning John’s shirt, he painted a stripe with his tongue along the soft skin of John’s neck and felt him respond by tightening his grip around Greg’s hardening cock. He continued blindly fumbling with the buttons of John’s shirt, still biting and kissing at John’s neck.

He clamped his eyes shut and blew hot breath against John’s skin as he felt his belt being undone just about the same time as Greg was able to slide John’s shirt off his shoulders. Removing his arms temporarily from Greg’s fly, he shook the garment off his limbs and let it fall to a crumpled, forgotten heap on the floor. Not wanting John to stop what he was doing, Lestrade took it upon himself to remove his own shirt, one that belonged to John, which smelled just as intoxicating as the man before him. As soon as he was relieved of the fabric, he circled his arms around John’s back and pulled him forward with jarring speed, wanting the incomparable feeling of skin-to-skin contact.

“God, Greg,” John mouthed against his lips, plunging down to kiss him again, this time more quick and desperate. Greg responded in kind by dragging John’s hips into his, and he gasped into John’s mouth when he could feel his hardness against his thigh.

Soon the feel of his fly being undone and his jeans and pants being wrenched down to his knees in a somewhat bumbling and awkward but still sexy motion were the only sensations he could process, his cock now exposed to the cool air. He heard the tinkling of John’s belt coming undone and the hasty sound of John pulling his own trousers down.

Lestrade hissed as he felt their cocks collide and only pulled John closer to him, not caring if John did anything with his hands, only wanting the friction and intimacy. The two groaned and huffed, rolling their hips into each other as their kissing became increasingly messier, losing all the finesse it possessed earlier. Their mouths flew wildly together, sometimes missing to ghost over each other’s cheeks, their noses bumping in a frantic yet endearing way.

“God, yeah, John,” Greg murmured, arms encircled tight around John’s neck. He seemed to come back to reality as he heard a whimper that most definitely did not come from his partner, and it was hard to believe that any else existed in this moment besides John.

But if there was one thing Lestrade knew about Sherlock Holmes, it was that he most definitely liked attention, and he was surprised that he’d put up with being ignored for this long. His sounds were pleading and desperate, like a small child imploring for his mother’s attention. The other man had tossed himself spread-legged onto the sofa, falling into the most thoughtlessly sexy pose Greg had ever seen. His shirt lay unbuttoned against the subtle tone of his torso, his trousers and pants thrown down to his ankles. His actions had obviously been hurried, much different from his casual undressing earlier. His pale skin was flushed with arousal, and one hand worked over his cock with slow, deliberate strokes, the other pinching at a nipple. His lips were parted and his breathing heavier than normal, and had a fire in his eyes directed at the other two men that was almost dangerous.

“Jesus Christ,” Greg gaped. He thought the initial shock of seeing Sherlock like this would have worn off by now, but he looked absolutely sinful—and utterly and completely gorgeous. Even John, who had no doubt seen Sherlock in a colorful array of compromising positions, seemed to be at a loss as he gazed upon the sight before him.

John flashed a nefarious smirk and nodded his head towards Sherlock and Greg lifted his eyebrows in a way that said God, yes. The pair had to stop for a giggle as they took off their shoes and shook their trousers off their ankles the rest of the way.

When encountered with free reign of Sherlock’s body, Greg had no idea where to start. John, however, bent straight down and caught him in a kiss, and Greg had to stop and observe. The sight of those two snogging was an experience all in its own. It was one of the mostly wildly passionate things Greg had ever seen—the way their lips dragged feverishly over one another’s, both of them probing with their tongues, obvious that they knew all the right spots to hit, obvious that they’d done this countless times before.

Before Greg could decide what he wanted to do, John had shoved Sherlock down by the shoulders into a laying position, and had already guided Sherlock’s head near his groin. He bit his lip as Sherlock kissed the insides of his thighs and ghosted his lips over the shaft of his cock. With a surge of arousal, Greg remembered how Sherlock liked to be gagged, liked to choke and have it forcefully shoved down his throat.

Without really thinking about it, Greg knelt on the end of the sofa and spread Sherlock’s wan but powerful legs. He gulped in anticipation as he took in the sight of it, knowing he had the cock-end of Sherlock Holmes all to himself.

Out of his peripheral vision, he caught the sight of John holding Sherlock’s head over his dick in a position that was probably going to cause an ache in his neck later, but Sherlock obediently sucked and bobbed, making John pant and mutter obscenities under his breath. 

Snapping his attention back to Sherlock, he lowered his head and cautiously licked at Sherlock’s inner thigh, eliciting a shiver in response to the unexpected contact. He edged his mouth closer to Sherlock’s groin with excruciating slowness, taking the time to fully taste him. He was sweaty and salty and real, more real than Lestrade ever thought a man so extraordinary could taste.

Greg shifted nervously as he came dangerously close to Sherlock’s cock. It’d been a long time since he’d done this, but as his eyes trailed back up to the sight of his mouth being fucked by John, he didn’t think even Sherlock would notice the difference. His hands on Sherlock’s thighs, he mouthed and sucked at his balls, causing Sherlock to wriggle beneath him in response.

He edged up the shaft of his cock, licking every inch, until he was at the tip, flushed and plump. Licking away the salty liquid gathered there, he rolled his lips over the glans several times, causing Sherlock to writhe beneath him and eliciting a moan from John, who’s eyes were glued him and Greg. Plunging his mouth over the length of his prick and bobbing back up, Lestrade had to hold Sherlock’s legs in a vice grip to keep him still.

As his hands ran over the marble surface of Sherlock’s thighs and over his pelvis and down to the beginnings of his arse cheeks, an even better idea suddenly popped in Greg’s mind. Removing his mouth from Sherlock’s groin and hiking his legs up instead of holding them down, Greg brought three of his own fingers to his mouth and generously lubricated them with saliva. Sherlock and John had to reposition a bit, but John didn’t seem to mind, as although he was still having his dick thoroughly sucked, he was still making an effort to keep his eyes locked on Lestrade and Sherlock.

Steadying himself, Lestrade parted Sherlock’s arse cheeks and traced steady, light circles around his hole, feeling him shiver as his fingers brushed the sensitve skin. He bit his lip and slowly pressed into Sherlock with his index finger, hoping he wasn’t hurting him. Judging by the way he moaned around around John’s cock, it was just the opposite. Sherlock’s lewd moaning seemed to have a chain reaction, John growling, “Oh, God,” from the sensation the vibrations created, Lestrade making unintelligible sounds of pleasure from the sheer arousing insanity of the entire situation.

He worked the finger steadily in and out, reveling in the tightness and the way Sherlock contracted around him. Even with John’s cock filling his mouth, Lestrade could still hear him breathing hard and sputtering. Crooking his finger, he began blindly searching for Sherlock’s sweet spot. It had been an especially long time since he’d done this. Regardless of how well he was doing, the slight arch of Sherlock’s hips onto his finger told him that Sherlock liked it. Greg reveled at the sight of Sherlock’s erect prick, bobbing right at eye-level, still glistening with his saliva and a fresh bead of precum gathering at the tip.

He added a second finger, causing Sherlock to remove himself temporarily from around John to gasp, but promptly returning to his task. His muscles squeezed tightly, but seemed to be drawing Lestrade’s fingers in rather than pushing them out.

“Fuck, can he come like this?” Lestrade was prompted to ask as he scissored his fingers, stretching and massaging the tight, wet heat of Sherlock’s arse.

“Oh God, yeah. Do it, Greg,” John growled, hips jerking erratically, now struggling to keep his focus on what Greg was doing.

Cautiously he pressed his fingers in up past the second knuckle and curled them up upwards, gently massaging Sherlock’s inner walls. His movements were searching, trying to find the sensitive mass of Sherlock’s prostate. He knew immediately when he had, because he emitted a stifled groan and angled his pelvis into Lestrade’s touch.

Greg kept his fingers steadily massaging Sherlock’s prostate, keeping him wriggling his hips and groaning continuously around John’s cock, making it more difficult for him to continue working on John consistently.

Luckily it seemed like Sherlock wouldn’t have to worry about it much longer, as John was frantically jerking and hissing hot breath through his teeth, his head thrown back, no longer focusing on Greg.

It was still so surreal to watch these two, John’s hand forcefully twisted into Sherlock’s curls, shoving his cock into the plump, sinful mouth, Sherlock’s eyes watering and saliva running down his chin. Never did he ever think he’d see the proud detective in a position of submission, being assaulted relentlessly on both sides.

Perhaps even more arousing than Sherlock taking everything they gave him like a pro was how aggressive John was being. Greg knew John was a lot tougher than he looked. He’d seen him hold his own at intensely gruesome crime scenes. He knew he’d killed people, seen them die. John was always very amiable and warm, but that didn’t mean he was weak, and right now he looked anything but. It was as if he was taking all the bullshit Sherlock made him put up with on a daily basis and throwing it back at him tenfold. There was something insanely gratifying about seeing John be the one to push Sherlock around and take back the control that Sherlock held the majority of the time.

Greg reveled in the fact that he almost seemed to be controlling the situation. The more he fingered Sherlock the more he groaned and hummed against John’s cock, and the more out of control Sherlock got the closer John got. John was gritting his teeth as Sherlock struggled to continue sucking him, and Greg knew he was close. Tugging on Sherlock’s hair with vigor, he winced, “Shit, oh God, I—,” and his body shook with orgasm. Greg licked his lips as he imagined the bursts of hot semen being forced into Sherlock’s mouth, and for the first time he realized how painfully hard his own cock was.

After John released Sherlock from his grip, the first words out of his mouth were a raspy, “Fucking hell,” as he gasped desperately for a crisp, complete breath of air. Now free from John’s grasp, Sherlock shifted his weight, rolling his hips over Lestrade’s fingers, urging him to go deeper as Greg worked his fingers more wildly.

Greg couldn’t take it any longer, he had to touch himself. The sight before him was too enticing, too unreal. Sherlock, trying to fuck himself on Greg’s fingers, his back arched forming a gorgeous s-curve, one hand thrown over his face and the other clutching the fabric of the sofa, his cock bobbing hard and neglected right at Greg’s eye-level. Lestrade brought a hand down to his own cock, his strokes immediately quick and desperate. He bit his lip and unconsciously tugged harder when sounds of pleasure escaped Sherlock’s lips.

Lestrade thought he could keep this going for hours—teasing Sherlock and keeping him squirming and incoherent beneath him, though by the looks of it, Sherlock couldn’t keep this up much longer, and Greg couldn’t either. Lestrade worked his strokes in time with his fingers, causing both men to groan simultaneously. Working his fingers in as far as they would go, he stroked slow and firm inside Sherlock, desperate to elicit even more response from him.

“God, please—” Sherlock hissed through clenched teeth, tilting his hips, wanting any kind of friction on his ignored cock.

Did Sherlock Holmes just _beg?_

“What was that?” Lestrade shot back. Half of that remark was simply to goad Sherlock, the other half was to get him to say it again because Greg was still in disbelief.

“Jesus, Lestrade, just—,” came the strained reply.

“I’m not touching your cock,” Greg teased rather huskily. Throwing his head back, Sherlock balled his fists and whined like a child throwing a temper tantrum.

Although Greg was reluctant to take his hand off himself, he couldn’t resist pinning Sherlock’s hipbone to the sofa and keeping him steady in order to stroke him more powerfully and efficiently. What little control he had he lost when he heard Sherlock growl and plead, and the desire to tease him was replaced with the determination to make him come.

Lestrade intensified his pace, trying to still the other man’s squirming. Sherlock covered his face with both hands to stifle his moaning and panting and struggled under Lestrade’s grip. Every time Sherlock flexed around his fingers Lestrade felt a jolt of arousal that went straight to his now untouched cock.

Sherlock’s hands flew down to grip the sofa once more, he gave a sharp intake of breath and an especially choked cry, and when Greg felt him clench he knew he was there. Sherlock came in thick, hot stripes that ran down his cock and coated his stomach, and Lestrade instinctively lowered his head to taste the bitter liquid. He was surprised to be joined by John, who was now kneeling next to the sofa, head lowered, also lapping at the semen coating Sherlock’s pale skin.

Both their tongues trailed over Sherlock’s softening cock, and before Greg could register it he found himself locked in a kiss with the other man, Sherlock’s semen still overwhelmingly present in both their mouths. Lestrade untangled himself from Sherlock’s legs in order to reach John more comfortably, and although Greg was disappointed when John broke their kiss, he was intensely relieved when John slid down his body and took his cock in his mouth, the sudden sensation of it almost overwhelming.

He tangled his hand in John’s hair though not aggressively, and let him work in swift, efficient strokes as he tilted his head back and let the pleasure sweep over him. It didn’t take long, and he could soon feel his toes curl and the pressure build in his groin.

“John,” he breathed, almost in relief as he cocked his hips into John’s mouth and shook with orgasm. As John sucked lightly and came off of him, he immediately felt a sense of contentment wash over him. Unexpectedly, John popped up to plant a short, chaste kiss to Greg’s lips before riffling through his pile of previously discarded clothes.

Sherlock promptly rose from the sofa and strolled into the other room to grab a dressing gown while John threw his pants and trousers back on. Greg, however, had to sit on the sofa for a bit and recover. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had two orgasms like that in one night, and he was a bit knackered, not that he was complaining.

“God, Greg, I haven’t seen him come like that in a while. He doesn’t often let me do that,” John commented as he pulled up the zip of his trousers.

Before Greg could reply (and he wasn’t sure what the proper reply was in a situation like this), Sherlock waltzed in wearing a thinning blue dressing gown, and still looking sinfully disheveled.

“Well, Lestrade. I hope you’ve enjoyed our little get-together, but I’m rightfully exhausted after two incredibly intense orgasms and it’s clear that you’re feeling significantly awkward about this whole ordeal, so I think it’s time we called it a night, hmm?” Sherlock prattled.

John grimaced at Sherlock and turned to Greg. “What he means is, we both had a great time, and thank you for coming,” he said warmly.

“No, I meant what I said John, there’s no need to sugarcoat things after we’ve just thoroughly gotten each other off,” came the sarcastic reply.

As Greg finished dressing, he said, mostly directed at John, “I, uh, yeah—thank you for having me.”

“Keep in touch Lestrade, we can do this again,” Sherlock threw out, not looking up from the phone he’d pulled out of his pocket.

Rolling his eyes, John clapped a hand on Greg’s shoulder and said lowly, “Good night, Greg.”

“Good night,” Greg called, not eliciting a response from Sherlock.

As Greg trotted down the steps of 221B, he shook his head and glanced back at the door, the events of the night flashing before his eyes. He’d just had mind-blowing sex twice in one night with two men he considered his best mates, and been invited back for more, and invitation which he was inclined to accept. Maybe this would be less complicated if it wasn’t Sherlock and John, if it wasn’t Sherlock and all his impossible enigmatic madness, and John and his always affable nature. And to top it all off the two of them were bloody in love with Greg had been thrown in the middle of it.

 _What have you gotten yourself into this time, Greg_?


End file.
